Her photograph haunts

Glaring at me through

Half-lidded hazel eyes

That I cannot fathom.

This is such a dance

To which I am not invited

Or even suggested

That I know about.

Her picture proliferates

Into my brain, my being.

It still remains nothing to me

Nothing more than perilous poetry.

10/01/2007

Author's Note: This came to me while reading Dickinson, I thought I might also play with a little alliteration...

Posted on 10/01/2007
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